| Suddenly she raised her right hand and began to chant in a language unknown to Gaston. Almost instinctively Gaston raised his shield and braced himself. A fiery blast of energy sprang forth from her hand, burning, racing towards Gaston. For a spilt second everything around him felt hot. Then the impact hit him. The heat became almost unbearable as Gaston was thrown back, tumbling down the path which he had climbed. Then everything went black before him. Had he been conscious, he would of seen the fireball reflecting off his shield and hitting the ground, causing an explosion that rocked the hill, and sending her falling, falling into the waves… * Another day dawned upon the Old World. The sun rose, casting its bright rays onto the lands of Bretonnia. The bloody ordeals of last night appeared to be some forgotten chapter of a lost nightmare, now much forgotten under the new day. It was spring and everywhere life was rekindling itself from the past winter. Tress and flowers blossomed in the forests, birds whistled upon the high branches and the icy tips of the Pale Sisters and the Massif Orcal began to finally melt, revealing light patches of newborn grass. It was as if the whole of Bretonnia had awakened from a long sleep, and is now bustling with new life. Peasants began sowing seeds for the autumn harvest and traders busied themselves, preparing to take full adventage of the spring trade routes. On a beach not far away from where the battle was fought last night rode Percival de Mervon, on his white stallion Einber. His bright chain mail and semi plates shone with brilliance. Along with his white cape, secured by a jeweled brooch, Percival appeared indeed to the unaccustomed eye as a legendary prince riding from the histories of the past. Yet he was still only a youth of no more then 18 summers and was deeply troubled. Some even suggested that he had a whisk of the Elven Kindred blood flowing within his veins. His handsome features frowned with disturbance, his golden hair fluttering in the cool morning breeze, almost as if lifeless. Beside him rode his squire, Peter, clad in hard leather. However presently Percival was deep in thought, head bowed, his chin touching his chest, breathing heavily, almost completely oblivious to what is happening around him. Percival de Mervon, son of Lord Chetant de Mervon, Earl of L’Anguille. Indeed Percival has been widely regarded as the Prince of L’Anguille, for the Duke of L’Auguille had only a daughter, though she held the fair majestic presence of any would be queen even if her tender age might suggest otherwise. Percival was the jewel of Lord Chetant, a shinning star, casting its bright influence across the land, bringing high reverence and respect to all of the household of the de Mervon’s. He was already quite proficient with a blade, been able to match any knight in sword play and charm any maiden with his lute in the fair city of Mervon, which rivaled only that of L’Anguille in splendor and beauty. Its high marble walls protected the fair buildings and the ten thousands souls which dwelt within. Divided into three areas, and protected by three rings of battlements, tirelessly patrolled by a host of knights and men at arms, the city of Mervon appeared to be almost impenetrable. It is even said that the revered Borgio the Beseiger would have headaches tackling Mervon head on. In the centre of the city, elevated above all other buildings stood the Citadel of Mervon, commonly referred as the Citadel of Light. Its twin towers of white marble shone like bright spears under the sun, and lucid crystals under the moon. Every morning Lord Chetant would look from the highest battlements of the Citadel, overlooking the acres of land he held within his fiefdom. The myriad of vine yards and wind mills, along with the many farm lands meant that the fiefdom of Lord Chetant was only second to that of the Duke of L’Anguille himself. Backed by a garrison of over three thousand knights and a strong host of bowmen and spearmen, Lord Chestant watched and protected the eastern coastlines of L’Anguille like a holy sentinel. And one day, all these would be left to his beloved son, Percival de Mervon, and he would rule with justice, continuing on the age old tradition of the Mervons. Lord Chestant palmed the smooth of the battlements, smiling at the thought of Percival succeeding him. Yet presently Percival’s thoughts were quite the opposite. After slaying the dreaded Bar’ark, a huge chaos troll that lurked with the forests of Shalot, Percival had fulfilled his errantry quest. His title of a Knight Errant was about to be lifted to that of a Knight of the Realm and in turn, he would be able to inherent his fathers full fiefdom. However he longed not for any of it. “Well, maybe it will not be so bad.” He said glumly to himself. But deep in his heart he knew that he would dread his title of Lord Percival of Mervon, and the tedious and boring day to day ways of the Citadel, the dinner parties, the constant discussions held with his advisors and the feeling of being tied downed. Indeed he was a spirited being, longing for adventure, longing to see the world, longing to seek out the holy grail… From the day of his knighthood of a Knight Errant, Percival had vowed within himself to seek out the lady and the grail. He had hoped upon completion of his errantry quest that he would forbade the title of a Knight of the Realm and forbade the fiefdom left to him. Instead he would set out as a Questing Knight, seeking the holy grail. Percival had long hoped that his younger brother Bartrel would be chosen as his fathers heir. Indeed Bartrel was more suited to the job. Although less charismatic and energetic, Bartrel’s spirit was calm and collected, not like the wild, thrill lusting spirit of Percival. But Percival knew that his father Lord Chestant had always favoured him in stead of his younger brother. Percival and Bartrel although brothers are quite tje opposite of each other. Where as Percival was bold and energetic, Bartrel was shy and abash. Where as Percival loved the arts of sword play and the charming music of the lute, Bartrel preferred the ancient tomes of the past and the lores of magic. Bartrel shunned publicity, and is widely regarded as the enigma of the Citadel. Bartrel is not even a knight yet, although he is only a year younger then Percival himself. Percival knew the deep disappointment his father held towards Bartrel, treating him with cold politeness while warming his heart towards himself. This has not at all helped matters relationship wise between Bartrel and Percival, with Bartrel being very much indifferent to his older brother Percival, sharing none of the brotherly affections. Percival however did not blame him, for he knew that Bartrel had been very much living under his superior shadow. “Oh trouble not Master Percival,” Peter said, almost reading his thoughts. “Many would die to be heir Lord Mervon.” Percival lifted his head and looked across to his squire Peter. Slightly younger then himself, a bond of trust and friendship had developed between himself and his faithful squire. Peter had short dark brown hair and a slightly freckled face, rustic but honest, loving and faithful to his master. He was both shorter and smaller then Percival, but feared little in battle following his Master wherever he went. “You have once again read my mind Peter,” said Percival, sounding a little more cheerful. “Sometime I think quite a shrewd mind hides behind that rustic face of yours.” Percival finished, giving a slight chuckle. “Its good to see you have finally cheered up Master, for you have said little all morning.” Peter answered, pleased that his Master has lost his gloomy mood. “Yes…my heart has been enlightened, for now anyway. Today’s cool sea breeze and warm sunshine bring peace to my mind and…” Before Percival could finish, his sharp eyes had caught something in the distance…yes there on the sand, a black figure lay. “I see something over there Peter,” said Percival pointing to the direction of the body. “Lets go and see.” Before Peter could answer, Einber galloped down the sand. To part 3 |